


Temperance’s Indulgence

by Darkrealmist



Series: The House of the Dead Poetry [13]
Category: The House of the Dead (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Battle, Canon - Video Game, Character Study, Free Verse, Gen, Genetics, Gothic, Guns, Horror, Leather, London, Mutants, Poetry, Prose Poem, Science Fiction, Shopping, Spies & Secret Agents, Survival Horror, Tarot, Unhappy Ending, Weight Issues, Wordcount: 100-1.000, Wordcount: 100-500, Wordcount: Under 10.000, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-17 10:44:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21053102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrealmist/pseuds/Darkrealmist
Summary: A poem based on the lurching approach of Temperance, set during The House of the Dead 4.





	Temperance’s Indulgence

Temperance’s Indulgence

Author’s Note: Enjoy the poem and R&R.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of the House of the Dead series.

Summary:

A poem based on the lurching approach of Temperance, set during _The House of the Dead 4_.

* * *

Leaden quake-steps batter the anarchy-looted shopping plaza street, glutton’s mammary-jiggling tramp.  
Ribbit-burps up the smoking borough. Sunken macadam and upreared signs slant nobody to nowhere.  
Tatted green sponge absorbs their all-out attacks, clenching the leather glove of immoderation.  
They run the monster-made flume, stalked by the unliving boulder which rolls after.  
_Croakcroak! _goes the fat frog, tumbling over. Forward then backward bowls his glandular mass.  
Flat on his face or flat on his back, the ironic giant grinds through his incongruous exercise.  
Isn’t it odd? A bit coincidental? Has anyone even noticed?

Receding Megalodon teeth project a whetted yet unsated inverse famine. Four horrible bloody rows.  
Fixates above on a driverless crane, their most useful mode of castigation.  
Obvious observation as they climb the quad-stair keep. The only way to go is up.  
Alas, he is persistent, playing dark peekaboo with an abbey-cratering fist.

Creditless hedonist blocks the view, but the lever won’t budge!  
Tolls the clock without bell’s chink, hours and minutes separated the face.  
Down into the trench the trench-trowelling trencherman slams, his weight given weight.  
“Temper this, buddy!” James girded at him, his protégé not holding in her untimely larf.  
They should see the city.  
Instead, the sky is frescoed and tastes coppertone red.  
Where has god gone, that _this_ can’t be a terra-ble dream?

He was four hundred eighty-three, born once, eater of civilization.

I cannot restrain myself, for there is nothing to impede me. What is it to be me, but to reject indolence?

So bankrupt of words, Kate’s incommunicable despair.


End file.
